


On the Fringe

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Poetry, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poem. John is grieving while packing up Sherlock's belongings. Mycroft comes over to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Fringe

**Author's Note:**

> At the bottom, I added the drawing I'd made that inspired this poem in the first place.

John knew the verve had left the place;

That much was written on his face.

Mycroft had seen him lounge about,

Refusing help, not going out.

  


The pain was fresh, he had a phone,

He shouldn't be left all alone.

John pushed "Ignore", to no surprise,

With pain kept deep inside his eyes.

  
The car pulled up, he knocked to wait,

Brushed finger over number plate,

Held brolly by his side and sighed,

Then, finally, was let inside.

  
They didn't say a thing at first.

John stepped back like Mycroft was cursed.

Perhaps, though, he was just weighed down

With sad stuff that affixed his frown.

  


The boxes said more than the man,

They whispered, "Help him, if you can."

Mycroft's calm heart did break to see

The "SHERLOCK"s written shakily.

  


John put the kettle on for show,

The grey sky's light the only glow.

Mycroft sat down upon The Chair

And John begrudged him sitting there.

  


John soon resumed his evening task,

Collecting every tube and flask,

Discarding rotting bits of flesh,

Face full of spots where feelings mesh.

  


Mycroft sat still and scarcely moved,

Of which John more or less approved,

But when an unchecked sob was dealt,

John crumpled to the floor and knelt.

  


A scarf was strung between his hands,

Ones that had fought in foreign lands,

Ones he'd cried into, all alone,

And hit "Ignore" with on his phone.

  


Mycroft knew it would not be good

To not be brave; he understood.

He rose and walked and knelt and frowned,

Gaze concentrated, caring, sound.

  


"What are you doing here?" John groused,

Thinking of what next to oust.

That nearest box was filling quick.

John gave his lip a nervous lick.

  


Mycroft reached out to touch the scarf,

The one John hoped he wouldn't snarf.

Mycroft, John knew, cared not for him;

Amusement flashed, then became grim.

  


The scarf slid from John's helpless grasp,

An exhale coming in a rasp,

A near-sob that grew full but soft

When John received help from Mycroft.

  


Hands on the ends, a straightness check,

He slid the scarf around John's neck.

He held his breath, braced for protest,

But John froze too. Was it a test?

  


Had all that gentleness been there?

John gasped as if he needed air

And realized they could turn out friends.

Mycroft's hands lingered on the ends.

  


John wondered how sincere he was,

If it was planned, not just because.

Mycroft said, "Don't be all alone."

John's sorrowed eyes were like his own.

  


John grasped a hand, upon a whim.

The centimeters felt, to him,

Like countless miles across the sand.

He placed a soft kiss to the hand.

  


It was a mock, it was a plea,

It said, "God, Mycroft, don't leave me."

It said, "Don't get any ideas."

Asked, "My problems before Korea's?"

  


Mycroft was shocked and froze in place,

All things but ice passed through his face,

He gasped and flushed and still held on

To each end once the kiss was gone.

  



End file.
